


we'll throw it on the fire, take ourselves downtown

by rayguntomyhead



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cybertronian politics, Idiots in Love, M/M, Orion is so smart but also so dumb, Transformer Sparklings, fun with alien biology, oblivious gay Orion Pax
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: The amorphous blob of protoform ripples, a sad, dull grey lump of a thing squished as tight as it can into the corner between the alley wall and rusted metal box trying futilely to make itself smaller.“No, no, it’s okay,” Orion croons to it, lays his servo palm up just near enough the protoform can reach a feeler out if it wants, but not close enough it feels threatened.Or Orion Pax rescues protoforms, exasperates Ratchet, fights the powers that be, and maybe, just might be falling in love.
Relationships: Megatron/Orion Pax, Orion Pax & Ratchet
Comments: 160
Kudos: 381
Collections: MegOP Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> um, so i was watching my partner play Death Stranding and my brain had a Hmmmm Moment and this... happened. So. I intended to write something entirely different for MegOp week but my brain is having a bad month, so I decided to let it write what it wants to write. Hope you enjoy!

The amorphous blob of protoform ripples, a sad, dull grey lump of a thing squished as tight as it can into the corner between the alley wall and rusted metal box trying futilely to make itself smaller. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Orion croons to it, lays his servo palm up just near enough the protoform can reach a feeler out if it wants, but not close enough it feels threatened. “There, there, brightspark, I’m not going to hurt you.” 

He shifts in his crouch, winces as crusty, crumbling bits of pavement that hasn’t been repaired in a thousand vorn jabs into the seams of the armor on his legs. Cold enough to sap the warmth from him too, here layers beneath the surface of the planet. The pits may be a few levels up, but Kaon’s denizens live here; _Megatronus_ lives here. His new… friend? Are they friends now? This is their third meeting, after cycles of messaging but there’s still something…uncertain, almost wary in Megatronus’ optics when he looks at Orion. 

He shouldn’t still be here, this late in the cycle though. Left Megatronus’ hab later than he really should have, caught up in arguing over Megatronus’ latest essay. Orion should be almost home by now, trudging up the stairs to his cozy sixth floor walk-up.

But he’s not going anywhere unless this tiny protoform is going with him. 

It’s almost… he almost can’t believe it. A protoform, _here_. In the kind of back alley only frequented by those lured in to be fragged or murdered, either way leaving no mark except a contribution to the wall collage of nameless fluids. The slick ooze of grime drips down dark walls to coat piles of junk left abandoned long enough to evolve into half-wild sculptures, still squatting here long after every mech that’d flung them here had flickered and dimmed. 

Hardly the sort of place that would be a hot spot. Hot spots were supposed to be sheltered, known, watched over so when the first coruscating lights of newsparks bloomed into existence there were mecha there to gather them, protect them, bathe them in energon until the shifting mass of living metal began to shape itself, slowly flower into its final form. 

How in Primus’ name did this little spark end up here? 

In its filthy corner the protoform shifts, pulses, flaring out defiantly before contracting in on itself again. 

“See, it’s alright,” Orion murmurs, settles closer to the ground to he doesn’t loom up over the little ‘form. “You’re okay now, there you go.” 

Something’s clearly wrong. A protoform as new as this one looks to be should be settling into some sort of comfortably geometric form, should be reaching out with its brand new field to the matured mecha around it, shouldn’t be _afraid._ And more than that it shouldn’t be alone. Everything he’d ever read in the archives said that blooms never happened individually. They barely happen at all anymore, but when they do they definitely don’t result in a single, solitary spark. 

Orion tilts to one side, taking pressure off of at least some of the joints starting up an uncomfortable ache and irritated HUD notifications from his awkward position. It won’t be any worse than a few overstrained cables tomorrow though so Orion doesn’t get up, edges his servo a smidge closer to the protoform. 

“You going to come out of there, brightspark?” he says. “I don’t have any energon here, but I can…” 

He cuts off abruptly because, wait. He _does_ have energon in his subspace actually. Not very much, just the last of a snack-sized energon box pick-me-up he ‘d stashed away for long nights at the archives. It’s something though, and with the ominously pale, dulling grey of the protoform he needs to feed it something before it starts to gutter. 

Well, nothing for it. It might spook, but he doesn’t have a choice. It needs the fuel, and anyway with the way it’s backed itself into a corner it doesn’t have anywhere to go. Orion reaches slowly into his subspace, pulls out the energon and flicks the cap off the top with one servo. He doesn’t move his other hand, letting the little bit feel the calming pulse of his field. 

“Bet you're not feeling too good, huh,” he reaches out, moving his arm like it’s moving through tar so he doesn’t startle the protoform. “Out here all alone, in the cold. You must be so hungry, brightspark.” 

The protoform churns, morphing anxiously from one inchoate form to the next. There’s something strange about the shape of it, the way it moves, something that doesn’t seem quite right…

Hmm. Must be a results of whatever had happened to it before Orion found it. It doesn’t matter – nothing else is going to happen to it, and Orion will make sure it gets all the energon it needs. That tiny prattling voice at the back of his processor reminding him about _energon rationing_ and _regulations_ is irrelevant. 

The tiny being is all alone, it needs his help, and that’s that. 

He tilts the box of energon slowly, slowly, feeling the viscous weight if it shift closer to the opening the more horizontal it gets. He hasn’t read that many datapads on newsparks, but he’s pretty sure drowning the little bit in energon when it’s this starved wouldn’t be the best idea, but it’s going to take more than a gentle painting of fuel to get the protoform even stable enough to transport. 

The energon finally reaches the mouth of the box and Orion vents, tilts the box just a wire-thing distance more until a slow trickle starts up, hitting the startled protoform. The ‘form gives a shuddering spasm, and then its sensors register just what is hitting it. It freezes for one long klick and then just… _melts._ Flattens into a puddle as wide as it can get in its hidey-hole to maximize the surface area the energon can absorb over. There’s only the dim, sullen flickering of the sodium lights behind him for Orion to see but when he leans in closer there’s something that looks almost like a strange line split done the middle. It’s almost as if the protoform has cracked, except they can’t do that, can they?

Maybe Orion should call Ratchet. Or take the little ‘form to see him, he should definitely do that. Ratchet’s clinic isn’t _that_ far, but it’s late in the night cycle and if Ratchet isn’t working himself to stasis he should be home tucked safe into his recharge slab. He works so hard, Ratchet does, and if Orion wakes him up now… 

No, he can totally handle this tonight and just bring the protoform to Ratchet for a checkup in the morning. After all he has access to all the database of knowledge on protoform development ever committed to writing, right at his servotips. It can’t be _that_ hard.

But first he has to get the little thing back to his apartment. The steady trickle of energon has slowed, every drop of it hungrily sucked up by his tiny new responsibility and now it’s slowly stretching up, up, grasping at the flow of life splattering down on it. 

Hopefully it’s stable enough to transport now. He has a shopping sack or two tucked in his subspace from the datapads and treats he’d brought to Megatronus’ hab, and that’ll do well enough to keep the protoform safe and undetected for now.

“Feel better, strongspark?” Orion says, casually edging the servo on the ground closer as he tucks the empty carton back into his subspace with the other. “Time to get out of this grimy little hole. Going to take you home, give you all the energon you need to grow up big and strong, okay?” 

The frond-like filaments stretching up slowly shrink back down into the rest of the protoform mass as the absence of energon continues. It’s still somewhat relaxed, not pulled in on itself quite so tight; if Orion can just…

He inches his servo closer, closer, and just the tiniest bit closer, and _ahah._ He scoops under the protoform and up, pulling it to his chest before it can react. 

There. Success! The protoform seizes into a strange scalloped edge puddle in Orion’s servo, before starting to _split apart_ what the frag. Orion pins it to his chest as best he can, frantically rummaging in his subspace for the sack with the other and he really, really should have done that first. The protoform is slippery and determined but Orion is faster, and before the angry little ‘form can escape Orion has it safely settled in the bottom of his threadbare sack, a pool of grey surrounded by the colorful blues and greens of dancing turbofoxes. 

The protoform seethes in its cage for a few klicks before settling down with a last few sullen ripples. Funny how something with no face and barely any active field manages to convey the impression of a glare so well. Orion ignores the irrationally guilty churn in the bottom of his fuel tank, and twists the top of the sack firmly closed. 

The ‘form will be just fine in there until they get home, and while there’s definitely better ways to transport it Orion doesn’t have any, so it looks like the grumpy little spark is just going to have to put up with it until they reach the apartment. His console is there to dig up all the research, there are dishes he can repurpose into a protoform container, and most importantly there's more energon. 

Container, energon, console. It’s a place to start. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just where are you trying to go, brightspark?” Orion says, slumping forward onto his elbows to peer down at the lump of cantankerous protoform.  
> The protoform churns ominously at him, splashing energon up the sides of the bowl as it makes yet another attempt to slither up and out. He hums back to it, strokes the side of the bowl sending the gentlest of vibrations running through the glass. It pauses for a full klik, and the determinedly resumes its climb to freedom.

“Just where are you trying to go, brightspark?” Orion says, slumping forward onto his elbows to peer down at the lump of cantankerous protoform.

The protoform churns ominously at him, splashing energon up the sides of the bowl as it makes yet another attempt to slither up and out. He hums back to it, strokes the side of the bowl sending the gentlest of vibrations running through the glass. It pauses for a full klik, and the determinedly resumes its climb to freedom.

It doesn’t make sense. The bowl is nice and big, with rounded edges so the protoform can spread out comfortably. The energon is fresh and cool. Why in the stars is it so determined to escape?

He taps through a few more pages of ‘Your Protoform and You: What to Expect When You’re Expecting.’ There’s chapters on ‘Preparing for Protoforms’, ‘What Your Protoform’s Shape Means,’ How to Choose the Right Blacksmith,' even 'Two Decacycles Later and They're All Grown Up-The Move to Mentorship.' But absolutely nothing in any of them about comforting upset protoforms. According to this they weren’t even really supposed to _have_ any sort of strong emotion at this stage, all their little spark’s energy going towards building their new form. They certainly aren’t supposed to be this active.

And yet here they are, Orion increasingly stymied and the bitlet not wasting a second in its determined quest to leave its new home.

This is so far outside his programming.

“I’m an archivist, you know,” Orion says to the ‘form. “Not a protoform blacksmith.”

The protoform ignores him.

“It’s cycles past when I should have gone to recharge,” Orion says. Do protoforms recharge? Or just sit there letting everything develop? Would you even be able to tell the difference?

“Although to be fair,” he adds, “that was already true when I left Megatronus.”

He hadn’t meant to stay that late, but he couldn’t _help_ it. There’s something magnetic about Megatronus, the sharp flaring gleam of his optics, the dark compelling rasp of his vocalizer as he lays out argument after argument, flaying the Functionist propaganda down to its malicious, malformed struts. Spinning visions of the what-could-be, blooming in his mind like panes of stained glass; mecha, rising up, all of those left buried in the dark breaking through to the light.

“Once you have audials, I’ll have to bring you to meet him,” Orion says to the bitlet, props his head on one servo as continues stroking the sides of the container. The little ‘form’s steady motions have begun to slow, and it’s mostly just bumping the side now in slow, stubbornly rhythmic protest.

He really does need to recharge now. But what if something happens to it during the night? What if it finally figures out how to get out of the bowl? It could get lost, or hurt, or stuck in some corner where Orion can’t find it, and it doesn’t have anything remotely resembling a vocalizer yet. What if it starves to death with energon only steps away?

Orion gusts out a vent, cycles another one before his processor can start overheating with all the potential variables it’s churning through like it does. Okay. So he doesn’t have a taller container. But what he does have is a lid. Except do protoforms need any air circulation? Probably better to be safe. A few tiny holes, poked in the top just in case. He can always buy another.

And okay, he probably could just give in and call Ratchet but it’s practically the middle of the night cycle. Ratchet needs all the recharge he can get. Orion can handle this just fine, and put off bothering him until the morning. He’ll just call ahead to Alpha Trion to let him know he’s going to need a cycle off.

It’s been ages since he’s taken an extra off-cycle anyway. Ratchet would definitely prefer him to wait to a reasonable hour. Definitely.

“Orion Pax, you underclocked wingnut,” Ratchet says, and raps the side of Orion’s audial with his datapen. “You waited until the morning to tell me you just _happened_ to stumble across a protoform.”

“Well,” Orion says. “Um.”

“Don’t you _um_ me,” Ratchet says and raps him again. “I am, in fact, a _whole medical professional_ and not incidentally _your amica_ and you decide well, this is clearly not anything urgent, I can just wait until later to bring Ratchet the fragging newspark I found in the back of a _Primus-cursed filth-ridden alley._ ”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“I’m sorry,” Orion says repentantly.

Ratchet just looks at him. “And…?”

“And I’ll bring you all future protoforms I find right away?” Orion tries.

“Smartaft,” Ratchet says, and raises his optics to the ceiling as if beseeching Primus for patience.

“It was fine, I put it in energon just like ‘Your Protoform and You: What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ said to do,” Orion says.

“Oh well if _the book_ said to,” Ratchet says.

“And I didn’t want to wake you out of recharge, you barely stop working long enough to give yourself any as it is,” Orion says.

“Hrmph, like you’re one to talk, Mister ‘Just _One_ More Datapad Ratch,’ don’t think I don’t remember,” Ratchet says in a terrible whiny approximation of Orion’s vocalizer. “And I work a perfectly reasonable number of hours, thank you very much.”

Which is _such_ a load of shuttlescrap Orion clicks a rude noise at him, ducking the next whap of the datapen. And yes, he could keep nettling Ratchet but there is in fact a reason he’s here and not at the archives.

He hoists the container of protoform higher and proffers it to Ratchet.

“Here, just look at it, I think there’s something wrong,” Orion says, poking a digit at the little ‘form. “The first time I picked it up it split, if you look right in the middle there’s-“

Wait. That tiny troublemaker is halfway up the side of the container and has the smallest tendril stretching juuuust over the side of the bowl.

“Oh no you don’t,” Orion says, slips a digit under the tendril to flip it gently back into its pool of energon. “Nice try, bitlet, but you’re staying right here so the grumpy doctor can take care of you.”

“I’ll take care of _you_ ,” Ratchet mutters that it’s supposed to be a threat, but gently scoops the container out of Orion’s hold and sets it on the berth. He pulls a scanner out of somewhere and holds it over the ‘form until the display lights up with colorful graphs and lets out a cheery _ding._ Ratchet half turns towards Orion, opens his mouth but before he can vocalize anything the scanner gives a confused burble, then a set of cheery dings all in a row. They both stare at the screen, now crowded with even more colorful graphs.

“Well,” Ratchet says after a klik. “That explains the splitting. Congratulations, ‘Rion. You’ve got twins.”

Orion stares at the display, and then stares at the protoform. Proto _forms_ rather. Primus, there’s _two_ of them? The blob of grey doesn’t look at all like it’s actually two blobs of future Cybertronian.

“Why are they all melded like that then?” Orion says, and leans in to squint closer at the ‘forms. “I only saw them split for a moment, and they’ve been mostly in one piece.”

Ratchet hums something noncommittal, clearly making some sort of sense of the jumble of incomprehensible symbols on the screen.

“Most likely they’re split-spark twins,” he says. “They’ll probably be all tangled up in each other until they start the differentiation process.”

“Differentiation process? That’s going to be a while, right? How long will they be like this?” Orion says. “The book said it was approximately two decacycles but it didn’t say how long after that until they were fully formed, or even how long the forming process would take-“

“Two decacycles is an estimate,” Ratchet breaks in before he can get even half his questions out. “With twinsparks, it varies. By the end of the first decacycle they should be starting to shape out a bit – the beginnings of struts, a distinct helm and chassis, that sort of thing. That’s when they’ll start to look more like two mecha than one, but make sure you still keep them in close contact with each other. Don’t need to cause them any more trauma than they’ve already been through.”

Poor bits. They have been through the wars already, haven’t they. Blooming in the dark and dank, abandoned and starving for who knows how long. And for them to have such an early reflexive distrust of other mecha…

Orion forcibly dumps that train of thought from his frontal processing before it can really latch on and straightens up. Not poor bitlets - survivors is what they are.

“Two decacycles?” he says, turning back to Ratchet. Ratchet nods.

“You’ll know when their sparks have finished writing all the nanocircuitry, processor connections and such when the differentiated forms start growing,” he says. “Once that happens, make sure you get them to a larger room quickly, someplace quiet but big enough for however large they end up being.”

Oh. Huh. Orion hadn’t even thought about that. He’d just sort of… assumed, really, that they’d be civilian builds. But he had found them in Kaon. If anything, it was more likely they would be some type of warbuild, or miner, some kind of larger frametype.

“Just remember, when they bloom they might _look_ like mature mecha, may have all the processor ability too, but they haven’t got a nanochip’s worth of experience to back any of it up,” Ratchet says. “It’s going to take time, and unless you plan on giving them up to the Council-run centers, you’re going to have to mentor them.”

Oh Pits no. Frag _that_. Orion will hand these innocent little mecha to the Council goons over his dead body. His vents cycle up, and he stares down at the ‘forms. They’ve finally given up on this round of escape attempts and now seem to be amusing themselves by morphing from one mutated hexagonal shape to the next.

His responsibility. Not just one mech, but two of them. Not just helpless little protoforms, but fully developed mecha. His background processing starts automatically queuing up searches for every datapad ever published on newspark mentoring, bookmarking them for download once he has access to his console again.

He has two decacycles, give or take. That’s long enough to integrate the basic information he needs. And if they end up being warframes – well, at least he has Megatronus. Even if he doesn’t have the experience in how to handle the situation himself, he must know someone that does. His network branches through all of Kaon. Surely there must be some trustworthy mech that can give him advice, help him do this _right._

He’s been standing there motionless for too long though, and Ratchet shifts awkwardly on his pedes, clears his vocalizer.

“You won’t do it alone,” he says gruff, moves behind Orion to put a servo on his pauldron and squeeze. “I’ve done a few rotations with the newsparked in my time, y’know.”

“I know,” Orion says, reaches up to lace his digits with Ratchet’s and squeeze back. “Thank you Ratch. Really.”

Ratchet meshes his field deeper into Orion’s, warm and steady and comforting.

“Don’t have to thank me, wingnut,” he says, and knocks their helms gently together.

Orion nearly drops the container twice on the drive home, the design not at all optimal for carting around regularly. Clearly he’s going to have to do something about this tomorrow. After all, Ratchet had thoroughly hammered into his head the new regimen of supplements the underdeveloped protoforms would need, and the drive back to his hab was entirely too long to make on what short breaks he managed to take.

Maybe some sort of portable holder? Maybe he can even cobble together one he can strap on his front so he doesn’t have to worry about any nosey coworkers poking at it while he’s making his rounds. It would look strange, but it would be practical. It’s not like he works the front desk regularly anyway, not when he’s the only mech at the main archive besides Alpha Trion with both the training and clearance to handle the datapads in the deep archives.

That is definitely a probably for tomorrow him though, because he’s only just through the door when external comm goes off and Orion’s spark flips in his chest.

 _Megatronus_.

He hurries to set the protoform on the front part of his console, activates the screen and accepts the call request.

“Orion Pax,” Megatronus says stiffly, almost hesitant.

“Megatronus!” Orion beams at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t message you sooner.”

“I wasn’t expecting one,” Megatronus says, which - what? Orion wilts, just a little. The way they’d talked yesterday Orion had thought…

“I didn’t- I would have,” Orion says, mouth tugging down at the corners. “Our conversations have been- at least, I thought you knew I’ve meant it all. That I want to keep talking with you.”

“Not that’s not-“ Megatronus says. He breaks his gaze away to stare at the corner of the screen before turning back to meet Orion’s optics, his own burning brighter. “I meant to say, I had hoped that you would be amenable to meeting again. We didn’t finish our discussion last night.”

And his plating is still prickly and flared, but there’s something in his tone, something not as cold as before. Orion can’t blame him, really, for his wariness. For his distrust of someone in Orion’s position. It just means he’ll need to work even harder to prove himself.

“Absolutely,” Orion says, and can’t stop the happy fluff of his own plating. “Only just so you’re prepared, when me meet it won’t just be me.”

“Who exactly do you mean to-“ Megatronus tone flips instantly to suspicion but Orion interrupts with a “No, no, not another mech per se it’s just I found…”

Hmm. Maybe it’s better just to show him. Orion reaches out to scoop the container into view of the screen. The protoforms slosh angrily at the movement, before settling back down into a sullen puddle in their energon. Since their first dose of supplements they’ve been much less active, probably needing the energy to properly process it all.

“You found a… what,” Megatronus says.

“Say hello to Megatronus!” Orion hoists the container higher, sending a cheerful field pulse of greeting, gently tugging at the little forms’ fields to show them how. Not that Megatronus can sense it. But it’s the principle of the thing. How will they learn if Orion doesn’t teach them?

Megatronus’ faceplates seem to have all frozen up, optics cycling in and then spiraling open again as if he’s just making sure the image is indeed transmitting correctly.

“What,” he says. “Is that.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen protoforms before,” Orion says. Although now he says it out loud, it’s entirely possible Megatronus hasn’t seen one in person before. He can’t imagine the gladiatorial arena is the sort of place they keep vulnerable ‘forms around, and Megatronus has been cagey on what his history was before he became an arena champion. Probably still worried about Orion’s intentions, but that’s alright. Orion is patient.

“And it’s not just one ‘form either,” he adds, “these two are _twins_.”

“Are they,” Megatronus says.

“Split-sparks, Ratchet says- have I told you about Ratchet, my amica? He’s a doctor, anyway, I took them to him for a checkup and he said they’re definitely split-sparks,” Orion says. “They’ll start differentiating once they’re closer to blooming.”

“Will they,” Megatronus says.

“I can’t wait,” Orion says, and hugs the container a little closer. “At least this time I’ll know what’s happening. When I found them I thought maybe they were sick or injured because when I picked them up they _split_.”

“Did they,” Megatronus says, and he doesn’t sound nearly as enthusiastic as Orion does about this all, but that’s alright. It’s understandable if he hasn’t been around a lot of newsparks, this must be very new.

“They did, it gave me such a scare,” Orion says. “But Ratchet says they’re mostly healthy, except for some supplements they need to integrate into their protoforms. I’m bringing them with me to work tomorrow and after I could… I could bring them to meet you?”

He ducks his helm a little, hoping he doesn’t sound too pushy. After all, Megatronus must have a thousand demands on his time just as Orion did, and he’d taken joors of it already yesterday. His new essay too, had been almost finished when he’d let Orion look it over and he’d need time to edit it and get it to Soundwave to scrub before he released it onto the datanet.

“If you have the time,” Orion says, quieter. He pets the side of the container, feels the gentle sing of the vibrations. Megatronus tilts his head, leans just the smallest bit in towards the screen.

“I have time for you, Orion Pax,” Megatronus says, deep and almost warm. And that’s… that’s… Orion’s spark flips again, fluttering in his chest in that way it only seems to do with Megatronus.

Orion’s so lucky to have found a friend like him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ehm,” Decimal says. “Orion. You have a– a thing.”
> 
> Orion tugs his book cart close enough he can brace one pede on the bottom edge and push himself just that inch high enough to slip the datapad back into place on its shelf.
> 
> “I have many things,” he says. “Is there one you were looking for specifically?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a hell of a few months, yeah? Thank you to every still reading, and especially especially thank you to everyone who took the time to leave comments and kudos. I finally finished my contract job and finally have more free time to do fun things like sleep and write. Hope you enjoy!

“Ehm,” Decimal says. “Orion. You have a– a thing.” 

Orion tugs his book cart close enough he can brace one pede on the bottom edge and push himself just that inch high enough to slip the datapad back into place on its shelf.

“I have many things,” he says. “Is there one you were looking for specifically?” 

“N-no,” Decimal says, nudging his glasses back up his nasal ridge. Honestly, he really should just take them in to be adjusted. It wasn’t going to hurt anyone’s _feelings_ that they hadn’t got them right. Underneath Orion the cart wobbles ominously and he carefully lowers his weight back onto the floor. 

“I mean the thing,” Decimal says, “on your chest.” 

“Oh, right,” Orion brightens, and turns to face Decimal. “I adopted protoforms!’ 

Decimal’s round optics stare back at him. 

“Surprise,” Orion says, and waggles his hands weakly before hooking a digit under one shoulder strap to push it back into place. 

It had taken nearly all of his morning to figure out a way to hook the protoforms new tank up to some sort of strap-on contraption he could hook on to his front. It’d turned out decently enough for being done by someone with absolutely no construction acumen, if he did say so himself. And this way his hands were still free so he wouldn’t have to leave the protoforms alone on his desk while he moved about the archive. 

“I wasn’t planning on it exactly, I just sort of found them,” Orion says. “I didn’t want to dump them into one of the Council-run centers, you know how those are.” 

Decimal wrinkles his nasal ridge delicately. 

“So you…” he says, trailing off to continue staring at Orion in bemusement. 

“Adopted them, yes,” Orion says. “ I couldn’t just abandon them and anyway isn’t everyone always on about how I need more hobbies?” 

“Somehow I don’t think that mentorship was exactly the hobby anyone was referring to,” Decimal says. “Maybe metal carving. Or gardening.” 

Which is silly, Decimal knows Orion already has a plant – he’s shown them all pictures. Solomus the Third is doing quite well in the windowsill of his hab. Orion had even been thinking buying a second plant now that this one had survived past the decacycle.

“It was the right thing to do,” Orion says. “Besides, I have it all planned out and made them a carrying sling and everything so I could have them here, you know how our hours get sometimes.” 

“I know how your hours get,” Decimal says. “Don’t color me with the same paint. I have established a perfectly acceptable work-life balance.”

“Of course,” Orion says, mildly. “It was definitely me that was the last one in the building last work cycle.”

Decimal looks back, optics reproving like he doesn’t have any idea to what Orion is referring.

“Be that as it may, I’m not sure you’ve quite thought this through,” he says. “Have you pulled references from 649.10243 yet? We just got in a new work by Callen Minor that might be particularly relevant.”

“I’m waiting until after I finish with my taskings for the day,” Orion says. After all that was personal business and the archives deserved his undivided attention during his working hours. “But thank you, I’ll definitely look those up.”

Decimal nods, glasses slipping back down his nasal ridge. Orion smiles politely, then carefully shifts the cart until the crotchety wheels finally sync all in the same direction. He starts to push it forward, but Decimal doesn’t move. 

“Is there… something else?” Orion says. Decimal opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs. Finally he shuffles out of the way enough that Orion can squeeze the cart past and Orion leaves him still standing there with one last nod. It was a good idea though, pulling from the hard-copy only references. Maybe he can pick up some datapads for Megatronus too while he’s there. He’ll set a reminder ping to message Megatronus on his next break. 

Some of the older pre-Functionist philosophy texts maybe? It wasn’t as easy to get ahold of the hard copies of those. He really should get back chipping away at the transcription of those into a format the network upload would accept, but since that wasn’t _officially_ part of his job he’s still stuck working on it after hours in his spare time. 

It was an outrage no one had done it before though. It’s hard enough for most mecha to get away from their job during their closest archive’s open hours, much less take time off to travel to whatever particular archive had the text they wanted. And when he’d tried to lobby the board to set up some sort of inter-archive loan program like Caminus had, he’d been thoroughly shut down with excuses about _the delicacy of older texts_ and _surely anyone who needs it that much will prioritize traveling to read it._ Completely ignoring the fact that the archives already _had_ such a program for the archivists themselves that had been running perfectly smoothly. 

Maybe it was time to go bother them again about it. After the protoforms differentiated, of course. They’d need a lot of attention, those first few decacycles after all and they deserve a mentor who wasn’t too busy to give that to them. Especially if they ended up with non-civilian builds. They’d have to be taken to spend more time with other mecha like them, who could mentor them in everything Orion couldn’t. 

He glances down at his chest. Inside their little tank the protoforms seem to have relaxed into some strange shape that’s a cross between a hexagon and a scutoid, maybe lulled by the gentle motion of Orion’s walking. He shifts his hands to edge the cart into place with its fellows with one, and strokes two digits gently down the outside of the glass with other. 

Was it his imagination, or did they seem to have a little more mass than yesterday? The grey of their protoform was deeper too, less pale and sickly looking. Those supplements Ratchet had slipped into his subspace before shooing him out the clinic door really seemed to have done the trick. Maybe that would be enough for them to settle down more and focus on growing, like they should be doing. 

He carefully lifts the straps of his carrying contraption over his head and sets it next to his console. Lowering himself into his chair, he taps his light pen gently on the screen to wake it up and pull up his to-do list. 

His chronometer has ticket past 1900 joors by the time Orion finally checks off the last of his list. His back cabling has started to twist itself into angry kinks so he pushes back, links his hands and arches his back to stretch them out again. Ugh. Maybe he should look into getting one of those ergonomic chair. The cost would certainly be made up for in the long run by the maintenance costs he’d be saving. 

The protoforms slosh in lazy circles in the bottom of their tank, having given on the resting thing a couple joors back. They haven’t tried for escape again at least, seeming to have finally settled in. Which reminds him, he should add their evening supplements. 

Digging the packet out of his subspace, Orion grabs the pull tab. It breaks off with barely a micrometer of the packet open and he huffs, catches the edge between his denta and rips it the rest of the way off. Some of the mineral powder puffs into the air, and Orion wrinkles his nasal ridge. That does not smell pleasant at _all._ Lucky the little ‘forms can’t taste anything yet. 

He cracks the lid, shakes the packet until every last pit of the powder falls into the energon, slowly sinking into the viscous liquid. One of the protoforms reaches an inquiring tendril up before freezing, and drawing back like a pissed-off voltacat and plastering itself to the side of the tank furtherest from the supplements. 

Huh. Well they weren’t _supposed_ to be able to taste anything yet. Maybe they were just suspicious of anything new. 

“There, there,” Orion says. “I know it’s different, but they’re good for you.” 

The protoforms stay exactly where they are. It’s fine. As long as they’re in there, the supplements will absorb eventually. With one last soothing hum, Orion settles back into his chair and pulls up the archive search engine. He still has datapads to pull before he can see Megatronus. 

The transport down level arrives to the station exactly five minutes late, as usual. Orion waits until the main crowd has crowded their way on before needling his way in with his arms cupped protectively around the carry tank. 

There’s a few side-eyes from the other passengers, but the nice thing about the trains is that everybody has their own business and places to be and mostly keeps their nasal ridges out of everyone else’s. His little protoforms are hardly the strangest thing most of them had seen on their daily commute. 

With a last warning ding the doors slide shut, and the transport judders to a start. Orion sways, and reaches up hurriedly with a hand to grab one of the overhead handles.

Only a klik ride from here. He pings Megatronus his arrival time, and receives a gratifyingly quick affirmative ping back. The datapads nestle comfortingly in his subspace – hopefully Megatronus will be happy with the selection he chose. Certainly there had to be one of them he hadn’t read yet, and then they would have something to talk about the next time Orion came down.

Queuing up one of the audio files on mentorship on his internal audio, he hugs the protoforms a little closer with his free arm and settles in for the trip. 

Megatronus’ habsuite thankfully sits only a short walk from the station. It’s early enough in the evening that the streets still bustle with after-work commuters, and Orion nearly gets knocked off the sidewalk into the flow of driving mecha several times by overlarge frames too busy or tired to look where they’re going. He’s not even that small, but he’s often dwarfed by the construction frames and war frames that make up a good chunk of the population on this level.

He presses the buzzer outside the thick, pitted slab of door, and shifts from pede to pede. The locks click open, all four of them, and then Megatronus slides it open. 

He must be just back from work, his gleaming, iron-grey armor slightly damp from a solvent shower and dents still peppering the elegant red tattoo of scrollwork arching across the huge breadth of his chest. It must have hurt like the Pits to get that done, but pits if it didn’t look amazing, the delicate loops of it in stunning contrast to the sharp hard angles of Megatronus’ frame. He’s like an image out of an old text, a warrior-king of old, who even without the touch of his field exudes power and grace. 

Megatronus cycles his vocalizer, and Orion gives himself a little shake. He must be more tired than he thought to zone out like that. 

“Hello, Megatronus!” he says, grinning up and pulsing out his field in greeting. Megatronus nods back, letting his field relax slightly from his frame enough to return the gesture. He pauses, then raises an optical ridge as he turns his stare to Orion’s chest. 

“I suppose these are the protoforms you were talking about?” he says.

“They are,” Orion says, cupping his hands around the bottom of the tank to heft it higher. “They’re doing so much better now Ratchet’s got them on supplements. I downloaded a bunch of books on mentorship too– oh, and I’ve brought you some since we were talking last time about pre-Functionist philosophers I thought I’d bring some you might not have read.” 

Megatronus’ field brightens and he steps back from the doorway. 

“Well then, he says. “Come in.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read the warning, this is a brief discussion between Orion and Megatronus about Cybertronian politics and the media that could trigger on real life political feelings so if you need to nope out for your mental health _please_ do so. If there is a better/different/additional way I should warn for this, definitely let me know.
> 
> wow so this has been sitting here. awhile. um. yeah. anyway, I had lots of conflicted feelings about this so I put it off and put it off but it's time to stop letting anxiety brain procrastinate so here it is and it is what it is. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos, y'all gave me the motivation to keep chipping away at this <3
> 
> Brief easter egg references to both Angela Davis' Abolition Democracy: Beyond Empire, Prisons, and Torture and Edward S. Herman and Noam Chomsky's Manufacturing Consent which I have just started reading. Also references to political stuff, if there's anything I fucked up _please_ let me know in the comments and I'll do my best to rectify it. That said, this is not remotely supposed to be an actual commentary on anything real world.

“Do you have anywhere I can put them?” Orion says, gently lifting the protoform straps over his head. When he wears it long enough, it starts to rubs uncomfortably against his plating. Much longer and he’ll start to wear his paint away.

“I suppose the table, if we’re going to be discussing philosophy,” Megatronus says. “I find that such talk tends to go better with good drink.” 

He waves a hand at the solid slab of a table, swirled in some sort of multicolored layers. 

“I don’t think I asked you last time, but where did you get your table?” Orion says, settling the protoform tank onto the corner opposite the seating. “I’ve never seen one quite like it before.” 

“I wouldn’t think so,” Megatronus says, dry. “An acquaintance made it for me. She does the heavy lifting at a bodyshop, frame parts, gallons of temporary paint and so on. She also has to dispose of the layers of buildup that accumulate on the floor tracks from full body overhauls. It comes off in slabs, and treated and shaped right, you have this.”

He taps a digit on the table. 

“Amazing,” Orion says, stroking the glassy top because it is, the way that some mecha spin creations from waste, make beautiful what others would throw away. 

“Yes, well,” Megatronus says. “Stark and industrial accentuated in monochrome may the preferred choice for clandestine meetings, but I find it rather overused. **”**

“Of course,” Orion nods gravely. “And you can you really have a revolution without a properly memorable table to start it around?”

Megatronus smirks. 

“Precisely. Copper tea sound appetizing?” he says. “I might have some zinc if that’s more to your taste.”

“Oo, no, copper sounds _perfect,_ ” Orion says, audial fins perking up. “It’s one of my favorites.” 

Some mecha might tease him about his preference for flavoring that didn’t burn your tongue off, but there’s nothing like the sweet warmth of copper to mellow the mind and soothe the soul. 

“Good,” Megatronus says. “It’s one of my mine as well.”

The kettle shrills, and he flips it off, pours them each a generous cube-full. Steam wafts gently into the air as he carefully sets one in front of Orion and sets the other in front of himself before lowering himself into the chair opposite. 

“Tell me then,” Megatronus says. “Before we talk philosophy. How exactly _did_ you end up with,” he waves a hand at the tank, “those in your possession? You mentioned you found them.”

“I did,” Orion says. “I _am_ just an archivist, it’s not like I would have been appointed a mentor. But they were all alone and starving in an alley and I couldn’t just leave them there. Or dump them off at a Council center.”

He takes a sip of his cube, watching the protoforms shift lazily in the bottom of their tank, stilltired out from their long day. 

“I found them on this level, actually,” he says. “It’s strange, I haven’t heard of any hot spots in the area.” 

Megatronus scowls, cupping his hands around his cube.

“No, I don’t suppose you would have,” he says. “You can’t believe that the slums being a place of creation and life is a message the Council would like to propagate.”

“Then you’ve heard of this before?” Orion says, backstruts tensing. “Is it common?” 

“Common?” Megatronus says. “No. But not unheard of. Although I doubt most of those who bloom to life in the slums of Kaon find such dedicated mentors.”

Orion’s faceplates heat slightly, and he reaches out to cup the curve of the tank. His little troublemakers swirl lazily in their tank, almost following the curve of the colors on the table beneath them. Interesting, but who know much can they sense? Well, Ratchet does. Orion will have to ask when he brings them in for their next checkup.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” he says. “At least there’s plenty of reference material available so I’ll be prepared.” 

Megatronus huffs his vents. 

“Let me know how that works out for you,” he says. “But speaking of reference material, what are these books that you’ve brought me?”

“Oh yes!” Orion says, reaching a hand into his subspace to dig for them. He pulls out the first two, digs around for the last.

“Here,” he says, stacking the three in a neat pile and pushing them in Megatronus’ direction. “ _Constructing Our Consent_ , _Abolition Democracy_ and and a few others I thought you’d like.”

Megatronus snags the pads, and pulls them closer greedily. He hums, powering the top one on and flicking through to the title page. 

“ _Constructing Our Consent_ , eh?” he says. “Discussion of the Senate’s use of mass media as Functionist propoganda. Interesting.”

“Since we were talking about the role of popular media in conditioning society last time, I thought this might provide an interesting background,” Orion says. “This is the second edition, so it has a forward with the updated applicable statistic and data. I believe the original was written… about a vorn and a half ago?”

“I had run across references to this in an article regarding the mass perception of warframes” Megatronus says. “I admit, I’d be very interested in the broader scope of broadcasting and the control of information.”

“Absolutely,” Orion says. “I have a friend who works in the entertainment cast, I’ve been trying to get him to read this since he has a lot of insight into what controls the Senate puts on the broadcasters and how they control the flow of information.” 

Megatronus’ lip curls. 

“I imagine he had the most complimentary things to say,” he says. 

“It’s _absurd_ how much they’ve slowly crept their roots into every part of the information world,” Orion says. “Bit by bit, under the radar they’ve amassed almost total control.”

“Absurd?” Megatronus says, hands tightening around the pad. “Predictable. Information is power. And the Senate will stand for nothing less than complete power over Cybertron and her inhabitants.”

Orion hesitates. He doesn’t… _disagree_ with Megatronus exactly. But there’s too many people, too many pieces, for the Senate to want control of, surely. And even if they do, it would be an impossible task considering the reach of the datanet. There was always dissenters, questioners, mecha like Megatronus popping up and the Senate did have other things to do. 

“Surely it’s more about the general attitude,” Orion says. “They have to know that there will always be mecha willing to speak out against them. But if they can shift the access to and perception of information, they can create a system that sustains itself which is really–”

“Orion,” Megatronus says. 

“No, wait, let me finish, I–“ Orion says, but Megatron reaches across the table and gently curves two digits along the curve of Orion’s jaw. Just the two digits are large enough the edge of one nearly brushes his lips, warm and rough and, and–

Megatronus gently pushes his helm sideways, towards the protoforms before Orion can even think to slow down the whir of his cooling fans which are going fast enough now to be audible. He stares ahead for a moment, unseeing, processing the feel of Megatronus so close to his before his optics snap into focus and the protoforms– the protoforms! Instead of the shapeless lumps they’d pooled into before there were now to distinctly separate lumps like iron meteorite; dark, and oddly bumped and pocked. They still curled around each other like mirrored commas, like they couldn’t quite bear to not be as close as they could.

“ _Oh,_ ” Orion breathes, frozen. “Look at them.”

“The first state of differentiation,” Megatronus says. His fingers drag down the curve of Orion’s face, slowly pulling away. Orion’s faceplates feel strangely sensitive, and he swallows. 

“You’ll have to start upping their mineral consumption now,” Megatronus says. 

“Oh! Oh, right, of course,” Orion says. He wrestles his fans back under control, giving his plating a good flare and resettle. “I’ll stop on the way back. I don’t think Ratchet expected it to start quite this soon and all I have are the basic supplements.” 

“You might want to have him look specifically into supplements for heavier frame types,” Megatronus says. “It’s likely, given where they bloomed and how fast they’re developing, they won’t end up civilian frames.” 

It’s a good point. Ratchet does work in the Dead End but from what Orion’s heard he mostly deals with grown mecha – and if Orion causes these new little sparks harm through neglect he’ll never forgive himself. He’s an archivist; his whole _job_ is tracking down information so if he has to tear the datanet apart to find out what he needs to know, he’ll do it. 

“I will,” Orion says. “Thank you. I really do appreciate your insight, and if there’s anything else you happen to find out or remember about what I can do, let me know?” 

“Why, Orion,” Megatronus says, leaning back in his chair and raising an optic ridge. “You know how reticent I am about making my opinion known. I’m glad I have you to remind me.” 

“Mega- _tronus_ ,” Orion says. He gives an exaggeratedly exasperated sigh and pushes his chair back. “Fine then. I’ll take them back to Ratchet.” 

He scoops the protoform container into his arms, mentally begins to calculate the transport schedule. 

“We will continue this later though?” he says. 

“Of course,” Megatronus says. “You know I’d never give up the opportunity to prove you wrong.” 

“Certainly, how could I think otherwise,” Orion said dryly. “Until then.”

Megatronus cocks his head, grins back. “Until then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, if anyone wants to chat or brainstorm or anything about this fic, please definitely hit me up on tumblr, I'd _love_ that <3

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are <3


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